Five Minutes
by MissZoey
Summary: Each additional second begins to tell you that he isn't ever coming back.


**A/N. This was written over the course of a few evenings. Pre-The Big Bang, because it was finished before the episode aired. I have nothing against the episode, but it saves me having to accommodate Amy's parents in to the picture, as well as Amelia falling asleep outside. And it would have to be pre-finale, for other reasons you'll see. I was however sad to see the Fez go.**

**I don't own Doctor Who, or any characters in this piece.**

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_**A Few Seconds After.**_

You race back to your room, heart beating the rhythm of a thousand drums. You don't care that you'll be out of breath by the time you reach the top of the stairs; adrenaline keeps you going; _excitement_ keeps you moving. Fiery strands cloud your eyesight and you angrily push them away, diving for your suitcase; your little, tiny suitcase that holds all your dreams and hopes of a better, more exciting life. It's a struggle, but with your tiny hands you grab and seize hold of items, anything you think you'll need. He said he was taking you somewhere, your Raggedy Doctor, and you're no stranger to travelling. He does look funny, you think, cramming more in to the suitcase. Funny, yet extraordinary. Somehow though your mind won't agree with you, and you push the thought aside the moment you click the suitcase together. Coat, hat, shoes—all of this you acquire. He didn't say what the weather was going to be like. Though, as you recall, he did say there was a swimming pool… in the library.

You think you hear something, like the opening of a door as you race down the stairs for the last time (at least, in your mind it is). But you don't. You're just imaging things. Imagining the impossible.

_Man eats fish-custard_ is pretty impossible, you counter.

_**Two Minutes After.**_

You're in a hurry now, worried the Raggedy Doctor would have returned, appeared again just as suddenly as he had… how many hours ago? You cannot remember, too focused on outside, on _him_. Your Raggedy Doctor.

Outside. Its cold, but you're wrapped up, and you sprint straight for the spot you were standing in, right as he disappeared in his blue box. You're so young you believed him when he said his blue box was a spaceship. You saw him fly off in it! These are just a few of the recent memories that pass you by as you sit, barely in control of your excitement. You don't think it's strange that he said you could come with him. You don't think he's a stranger, either. Your parents told you never to talk to strangers and your Aunt was no different, and you know they'd be ever so furious with you—but you can't think about that. All you can think of, even though you know its wrong, so incredibly wrong, is running away in a spaceship that can take to the stars. A spaceship that can show you more than should be possible.

_**Four Minutes After.**_

Anxious. Worried. Concerned. Is he coming back for you? He did say five minutes. You know its only been four—you've been counting. But you know when adults say 'in five minutes' they always really mean a lot longer. Sometimes never.

To pass the time (each additional second begins to tell you that he isn't ever coming back), you tap your feet against the ground in the fashion of a drum beat, from a song you once heard on the radio. You can't remember the name; you can't picture the singer, and you certainly can't think of the lyrics, but the tune, the beat and the melody, you hum to yourself. You're alone (or so you think) in the cold night, the darkness making itself at home. You count seconds by the beats of your feet, now working together in unison, aiding you in your quest to continue waiting (though you're not aware, you'll be waiting a long time).

_**Five Minutes After.**_

This is where you perk a little—eyes scouring the patch of land, the air around you; ears suddenly becoming hyper-sensitive as you listen for just about any sound, any indication that your Raggedy Doctor was coming back.

There is none.

_**Ten Minutes After.**_

The moment you inhale, the ghastly air catches in your throat. Like a child—just like the toddler you saw clinging to its mother the other day—it stays there, holding on for dear life, and until you cough, you cannot breathe.

So you cough.

Coughing then leads to tears. The tears lead to sobs, broken (just like you are).

Why isn't he coming back?

You choke, infuriated with your inability to remain the calm, fearless, brave little girl the Raggedy Doctor said you were. All because he said five minutes, _five minutes_!

He didn't keep his promise. Or, maybe he's busy. Maybe it took longer than he expected, and he meant to say thirty minutes. An hour. He'll come back for you, and you know it. (Here you're just using excuses to convince yourself it wasn't a dream, and he was a real walking, talking, living person).

_**One Hour After.**_

You've been sitting here sixty minutes. Sixty minutes is a very long time to a little girl who believes in the stars. A long time for a little girl who was promised adventure, who was guaranteed a spaceship with a swimming pool in the library.

As sad as you are, you pull yourself together. You're Amelia Pond, the girl who braved the crack in her wall—you braved sleeping with that in your room, even though you heard voices. If you could cope with that, you know you can accept that the Raggedy Doctor isn't ever coming back.

(Five minutes really did mean never).

_**Four Hours After.**_

Nearly asleep. You'd sat by the door, leaving it wide open, for another hour. When he didn't show, you had cleared your suitcase away, pushing it back under your bed in hopes that when he comes, you'll be ready. If he comes back. Afterwards, you took off your coat, your hat and your shoes once you'd shut the front door. Now, you're tucked away in bed, all lights off, all evidence of the Raggedy Doctor invisible. Except, you can't get to sleep.

(You tell yourself it's because you're overtired, but really, you don't want the Doctor to think he cannot wake you up when he comes back).

You're still thinking he will, rather than _if_. You're only seven, after all, and you cannot believe someone this amazing would let you down.

(Except, they have).

_**A Week After.**_

You're Aunt says you were just dreaming. That you were making things up.

"I used to make things up when I was home alone," she says. You look at her like she's mad, the same way she's looking at you. No matter what anyone says, you refuse to believe he wasn't real. There was a man, a man in raggedy clothes, and he called himself the Doctor—and he had a spaceship.

"A spaceship, with a pool in the library."

"Now Amelia, you can't have a pool in the library."

"But he said there was…" You're sent away whilst she's cooking, though you catch yourself, wondering if you should make a request. You decide to. "Can we have pudding?" You ask, and your Aunt smiles at you. You know she's just happy to have you talking about something other than the Raggedy Doctor.

"Of course, Amelia. What kind of pudding?"

"Fish custard."

Of course, it was the wrong thing to say. Your Aunt puts down the wooden spoon, hands on her hips, and she sighs. You look innocently at her, though when no words are exchanged, you turn around yourself, heading back to your room.

The sadness is overwhelming. You feel deserted, abandoned, maybe. If he had come back, where would you be now? The Raggedy Doctor. Maybe you'd be on holiday somewhere, on a beach… or in the stars, walking on the moon. The first little girl to walk on the moon. You smile to yourself, pulling your crafts box up the stairs. Your Aunt bought you these so you could do something other than think about the Doctor, but what she doesn't know…

_**One Month After.**_

The first time you made a model of the Raggedy Doctor, it doesn't look right. You're trying to remember whether or not he was wearing a tie, and how many tears were in his trousers. You close your eyes, back against your bed, and bring your knees up to your chest. Then, listening to the sounds of your breathing, you remember.

This is all you've been doing. Over the past few weeks, you've been busy working on drawings, dolls and models. You've made some of you, so you could have adventures. They're small enough to fit anywhere in the room, especially under your bed. You draw a picture of the crack in your bedroom wall, and you pin it there in place, and have the doll's hands draw the outline. Just like he did.

Eventually you've taped together several pieces of paper, and you line them up along your bedroom wall, right where the crack was. To convince yourself that it wasn't a dream (and you know you weren't dreaming now no matter what anyone else tells you), you draw the crack again, exactly the way you remember it. You admire your work, your amateur dolls of the Doctor and yourself, and you smile. He is real. Just to prove a point, you look outside—the new shed is still being built. Your Aunt thought it was the weather, but as you explained, there wasn't any bad weather at all.

Just a man with a blue box.

_**One Year After.**_

"Amelia, come on. This lady's going to help you."

"I don't _need help!_" You pull back on your Aunt's grip, who insists on pulling you in the other direction. You don't want to go. You've heard stories about those psychiatrists, and anyway, they're for _mad_ people. You're not mad.

There are a thousand things going through your mind, all at the same time. You want your Raggedy Doctor to come and make everything better, to take you away, to let you travel with him. You don't want to see this person, who's going to look at you like you're insane.

(Because you're not—you're just not crazy).

Your Aunt wins though, against your eight year old self. Child rage isn't as strong as you thought it was. You're pulled through the big doors, nudged in to the waiting room, though there's no one else there. Your Aunt talks to a lady behind a desk, but all you can see are the doors you came through.

When you're called in, you're sent in alone. There's a woman sitting in a chair, and she's holding a clipboard. Another chair faces her; it looks comfy, you decide. Pink, and comfy. Fluffy too. The carpets beige and the walls are white. The furniture, though what little there is, you can see it's the same material. There are a few toys in plastic boxes in the furthest corner. In your seat, when you approach it, there's a bear. He has dark fur and a soft body.

"You can hold him, if you want." The woman across from you smiles as she talks. Her voice is soft, and her eyes are full of curiosity. Maybe, you think… maybe she'll believe you.

"I'm not mad," you insist. You don't care how your voice shakes, even though you're curled up in the seat, ignoring the bear you threw to the floor. "There is a man. He has a blue box."

The woman nodded slowly. "Were you tired?" Her question is asked tentively, but you glare at her all the same.

"No!" You yell. You're angry again, furious—you can't remember feeling this upset. There's so much you can say, but only actions leap forward.

You bite her.

_**Two Years After.**_

You don't see that psychiatrist again. Your Aunt found you another one, at the other side of the city. She wasn't happy with you for lashing out, nor was she pleased to hear you going on about how real the Raggedy Doctor was.

You're nine now, and two of your friends are no stranger to the Raggedy Doctor. You make Rory, the boy you think is kind of cute but a huge pushover, dress up as the Doctor, and you take your Aunt's camera to capture the image. When your Aunt sees this, she sighs. She's seen the models in your room, and has since given up trying to take them away.

You create your own TARDIS, careful to give exact precision to all the details. The drawings you've stowed away in your suitcase, the same one you spent over an hour sitting on whilst you waited for the Doctor. You've grown slightly better at this, though. The model-making. You've made proper dolls, each with arms and legs, and proper material for clothes. You've dressed yourself in that coat, the same one you now keep under your bed. (Just in case).

(One time you make Rory eat fish custard, but it's not the same).

You've been seeing this psychiatrist for a few months now. She isn't as patronizing as the last one, but she still looks at you funny. Everyone in that place looks at you funny, like you're mad (but you know you're not). You bit her once, when she tried to hug you, and she learned not to come near you again. You ask her in a forceful voice to bring the Raggedy Doctor back.

"He's not real, Amelia." She delivers the line with a tired edge, like a woman who has done this too many times. You don't care—you just want to leave. You want the hour to be up.

"Yes he is," you answer just as swiftly. "I'm not mad," you've been saying this line a lot lately and the more you say it, the more it contradicts the way you speak. There's a weakness there, and after two years, a tiny amount of doubt.

The woman leans forward, smiling past her glasses. "He can come back in your dreams."

You believe her, because there's nothing to disagree with.

That night, you dream.

_**Six Years After.**_

You take down the large picture of the crack and put it in your suitcase, the one that sits on your dressing table. You moved it there, because at some point in the night, a year ago, you were convinced you heard the noise. Whilst he hadn't showed, you kept it there.

Your models of the Doctor and young Amelia remain on your dressing table, but you've grown accustomed to waiting. Deep down in your heart you've realised your Raggedy Doctor isn't ever coming back. Your last psychiatrist gave up on you, and the one after that could only last two sessions. You still wouldn't let them sway you, and you bit all three of them. Now, your Aunt's desperately seeking for another one—but it's difficult, because everyone knows about your imaginary Doctor, and everyone is fully aware of how much you believe in him.

"He's _not imaginary_!"

(He's not).

_**Ten Years After.**_

"All right, Amelia. You've made your point."

(No more psychiatrists).

"It's _Amy_." You persist—firm, resolute. Then, in a quieter voice, you mumble: "Amelia's too fairytale."

Because he said it was fairytale, and he's not real.

(He's not real).

No matter how many times you say it, the pictures are never thrown away.

(And the dolls—they stay on your dresser).

A part of you still believes in the stars, a man who loves fish custard, and his blue box.

(A blue box with a swimming pool in the library).


End file.
